


Norway’s Bravest Son

by Spot_On60



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 11:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21197192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spot_On60/pseuds/Spot_On60
Summary: Halloween 2019 - Face encounters a gunner from the land of the midnight sun who, now it’s forty years later, still keeps up the fight.





	Norway’s Bravest Son

**Mambasa, Kenya 1968**

Van Owen’s flight back to his home country couldn’t come fast enough for his liking. Another three hours and he would board, leaving behind the bloodshed and knee-deep gore that came to symbolize for him the continent of Africa.

The thought of returning to Sweden had never been sweeter. He’d had rough jobs before, but nothing like this one. It was close to two years since he’d arrived on the clandestine mission, flying in darkness to an airstrip in Biafra on a plane piloted by the Rhodesian gunrunner Jack Molloch. From there he’d been whisked to the plantation of Belgian expatriate Black Jack Schramme. He’d been hired along with other soldiers of fortune from the Nordic countries to fight a war over land he’d barely heard of.

Midway through his stay he and his comrades, following Schramme’s lead, switched sides in the conflict. That’s when, despite fighting side-by-side, loyalties fractured. At least that’s what he told himself. The fact of the matter was the CIA waved three million US dollars under his nose and the greedy bastard pitched out any allegiance to the other mercenaries he’d told himself he had.

Van Owen had no one within this circle of hired soldiers he would call a friend. It was a waste of perfectly good emotions as far as he was concerned. The name of the game was financial gain and the money was good in this particular section of the job market. Just do what you do, get back out and get paid. He’d known the Norwegian gunner for years, travelled in the same circles as it were. It was nothing personal.

He sat in the darkened barroom drinking gin he would have put good money on was nothing more than cheap vodka with juniper greens soaking in the bottle, nasty and sour, just like his mood. Occasionally the door of the establishment would open spiking light from the outside into the cavern-like saloon. Each time the inhabitants were reminded the sun hadn’t gone down on the rest of the city, only in their stinking den.

Van Owen signaled the barkeep to refill him one more time before he set off for his rendezvous with the same pilot who had flown him in. After Mollach flew him into Algiers he would take a commercial flight onto Swedish soil. The next phase of his plan was to take delivery of newly minted documents to be used to leave his homeland and all of Europe behind forever. With several million deposited in a new account under his new name he would set out for Hartford, Connecticut in the United States. From there was anyone’s guess. He would fade into the landscape.

His agitation was growing as the moments passed by. It had been just two weeks since he’d left Schramme and the rest behind to set his new life in motion. Not a nervous person by nature his nerves were jagged nonetheless. Hypervigilant, he found himself approaching corners more cautiously and doing double takes of persons whose faces were sometimes reminiscent, sometimes dead ringers for the dead Weejun. Inevitably, on second glance, the person bore no resemblance whatsoever.

Tilting his head fully back he emptied the contents of the water-etched glass down his gullet, vowing to never drink gutrot of the kind again. With his head still back his eyes shifted in the direction of the door as it opened with a blast of what was left of daylight, blinding any onlookers but for the silhouette of the figure entering. One could be pardoned for thinking the red of the sunset at his back was the sky behind ablaze in ignited treacle.

Stooped forward the man’s broad shoulders filled the gap left by the opened door. Van Owen lowered his glass to the bar. He knew immediately he’d made an error in ordering the final glassful. A feeling of remorse set over him when it occurred him his last drink was the liquid shit roiling in his gut, trying to make a reappearance at the same time his bladder let loose.

The quiet that settled over the barroom in another setting could have been called serene, but in that moment it was nothing than stunned silence. There were no gasps, no shuffling under tables, no glasses tinking, no words spoken.

When the flashes from the Thompson gun let loose Van Owen was blown from his stool. It would be said in the retelling he’d been blown from there to Johannesburg. What was said about the perpetrator would become legend. This, after all, was the very first sighting of the figure. Most of those who witnessed the assassination didn’t believe their lying eyes, those who did lost touch with many of the anchors holding them in reality. Having seen it with one’s own eyes didn’t change the fact it was unimaginable the figure was without a summit.

Van Owen’s body went unidentified and was eventually cremated to make room in the understaffed, overcrowded morgue. Malloch waited at the hidden airfield for close to forty-five minutes before taking to the air alone, returning to his port. A Swedish bank account with a particularly large deposit sits to this day waiting for an owner who never existed and will never come to claim it.

**Undisclosed Location, Iraq 2007**

The quiet of the desert could be unnerving. So different from his other stations. Venezuela had its bustling streets and noisy wildlife filled forests. Germany so familiar, that is until a native spoke. South Korea was similar in its embrace of ancient culture, yet so contrary in its open arms to all things modern. But this Middle Eastern desert, similar to Nevada, with its miles of open desert bumping into lush greenery of plants that look like they’d be perfectly happy potted in an apartment in New York, was a land onto itself.

In the midst of such a juxtaposition of a green oasis from sand was where Face found himself. He’d been on recon, stalking within spitting distance of the encampment, his training taking over. It was his job to observe and take mental notations. It wasn’t for him to determine the purpose of any one item or combination. It was up to him to memorize all the sights around and in front of him, then fade away unnoticed to later report in full detail his observations. Analysts were responsible for putting together what he had seen into usable intelligence reports. His impressions would occasionally be requested, but just as often not.

The picture of a marksman picking off the bad guys from a hidden location, or the lone assassin of a political figure are more than likely the images that come to mind when the word “sniper” is used. Far more often the designated shootists are used for their talents stalking up to various locations, all the while blending in with their surroundings. Unlike a hunter stomping through the brush, stalking is in this sense all about stealth and patience. Speed isn’t the goal, being covert is. It can take days for a sniper to get within observation distance. Once there, they aren’t allowed the convenience of cameras or notebooks, the movement to use either too easily detected by their quarry. Instead they memorize all they can before retreating as quietly and slowly as the initial approach.

It was the retreat where things got dicey for Face. It was nothing but dumb luck on the part of the Al Qaeda lookout that he literally stumbled across the Lieutenant.

Straying off the main path into the undergrowth to relieve himself beside a tree, the fighter would have been none the wiser had he simply turned around when finished and returned in the same direction from which he’d come. No, he instead intended to walk parallel to the path a ways before returning to the dusty track. It wasn’t more than a half dozen strides before he tripped over Face’s still form, going down with a surprised yelp.

More bad luck found the man’s patrol partner in hearing distance. Face had the fighter pinned with little difficulty. A hand over the mouth didn’t fully silence the noises issuing from his throat, nor did it do anything to quell the trashing sounds of his legs. Using the precision of a chef severing the spine of a lobster just behind its head, Face used his Bowie to silence the man giving away his position.

Calling his companion’s name to no answer, the other member of the patrol team intermittently whistled an alert to the next team beyond along with reporting the missing man via an old style walkie-talkie to the encampment several miles off where Face had been lurking going on twelve hours prior. The militant jogged up the path in the direction he’d last seen his teammate and where the sound of distress had come from. Eyeing the foliage to each side he cursed the fading light. He couldn’t make out movement, at least not in the five or so meters he could make out clearly in the twilight.

Controlled breathing was the last defense Face had at not being spotted. He was within view if he so much as quivered. Hannibal’s voice was clear in his ear, “_Keep your wits about you, Kid._” He opened his mouth and relaxed his throat to draw in a noiseless and calming breath, exhaling he wondered if it could be heard over the blinking of his eyes.

Another two-man team joined his pursuer, eyes sweeping the area. A shout and blast of gunfire told him they were recklessly shooting at an unknown target on the opposite side of the path. More footfalls approached at a jog with a singular voice coming loud and sharp, obviously shouting orders. The torrent of bullets came to a halt. The same voice spoke and was answered by another. What little Face understood didn’t bode well. They would soon have more men to set a perimeter.

A single shout was the jump off of another explosion of gunfire. Face could hear the rounds whiz overhead. They were shooting past him. He took the opportunity to turn his head knowing the reports would fully cover any rustling sounds the movement could generate. A shouted order and the cacophony abruptly stopped as though an eject button had been pressed.

His view was obscured by not only the vegetation but also the further dimming of the sky. It didn’t however block out a shadow of movement. A figure emerged from the land’s natural downward terrace to his right. Mingled with abundant branches of sparse trees it seemed the darkened silhouette rose from the soil itself.

All was quiet and a question flashed through the LT’s mind. Had he told all those who mattered to him he loved them? If he hadn’t he hoped they knew. It was a certainty he wouldn’t be returning to them.

His reverie was broken by the muzzle flash of an automatic gun. Bright in the dusk, it’s suddenness half blinded Face. Confusion surrounded him, he should have been dead if not mortally wounded. His eyes refused to adjust properly as he watched the rapid pulses of light advance. He wasn’t being fired upon, the assault was aimed at the group on the path.

A new question skittered through his thoughts, _Who the fuck is this guy?_

Unable to make out details he couldn’t decide if he was seeing a uniform but there was definitely an absence of full gear. Moving in and out of the trees, bits of moonlight reflected off a tan T-shirt covered shoulder or a leg in green toned camo, a color normally unsuited to the desert country, but perfect in this bit of oasis. _Mercenary_, Face thought, _probably freelance_. But what drew Face’s eye was the thing that confirmed the rhythmic source of the gunfire hitting his ear.

Though easily eight meters away, the gunman was visible to Face between his feet where he lay beside the body of the man he’d killed. The gunner held an unusual weapon, one with a distinct rat-a-tat-tat sound of an old fashion machine gun. A single step out of the shadows displayed the drum magazine and told Face this was indeed a tommy gun, a Thompson submachine gun. It’s distinctive clapping reports lending it the nickname “The Chicago Typewriter.” It was made famous by Chicago gangsters of the 1920s’ who used them with abandon.

Return fire registered peripherally. Nothing to compare to the Thompson, maybe half a dozen shots that managed to land high or wide as the man showed no signs of being hit. A sudden turn away from the Lieutenant signaled the arrival of reinforcements. The gunman only paused long enough to locate the direction of the new assault.

The new recruits were far enough beyond there was no way for them to see him. Rolling the dead man off his own rifle he briefly thought of joining in the firefight, but quickly dismissed it as foolish. No one knew he was there. It would be suicide to announce his location with his own gunfire. Besides, this Thompson gunner was skilled, leaving no one in his range standing.

Now lying flat on his front he curled at the waist to get a better view over his shoulder. The flashing of the Thompson had moved to the path. Standing he would most likely not be hit, but he still determined a twenty foot crawl would be in his best interests as it would land him behind the tree just ahead.

On his feet he activated the infrared beacon on his helmet signaling for his extraction while remaining unseen by anyone in the area. Behind him the shootout had ended. He took a final look around the tree. The gunman was still standing. Much as Face wanted to thank his savior he didn’t have a clue who the hell this was and didn’t care to find himself on the receiving end of that killing machine. He heard Hannibal again, this time telling him, “_Sometimes caution is the better part of valor._”

Before turning to be on his way in the opposite direction of this guy, he looked again and could barely make out the man himself with the way he was stalking through the night, shoulders hunched, head so low it couldn’t be seen, apparently returning to where he had first appeared. Face took one step back causing a quiet snap underfoot, barely audible to himself. One could imagine it had echoed through the dark the way the figure stood up straight, pivoting to the sound.

The sight before him became clear as overhead clouds opened and allowed the moon to shine bright. It had to have been a trick of light and shadow, Face told himself, yet it didn’t stop him from throwing caution to the wind to turn and run, hoping with all his being he was out of range of the tommy gun. Hoping he wouldn’t be cut down. Hoping, and yes he was praying too, he wouldn’t be shot in the back and left to die in this Godforsaken, terrorist’s earthbound paradise by that thing back there.

He ran until he was breathless. His pace a fraction of the speed with which he had started. By the time he made it to the gully and the bridge he would use to cross it, he could barely put one foot ahead of the other. Aside from the exhaustion he was only then registering somewhere along the way he’d sprained an ankle, could feel it beginning to strain the laces of his boot. The beacon had called out his SOS and he was confident it was Murdock chopping through the night sky, rotors thrumming in the distance. All he needed to do now was cross the bridge and he’d be at the LZ as the chopper’s skids touched the dust covered gateway to open desert. He grasped the handhold ready to drag himself across if need be, but stopped his forward momentum, falling backward as if he’d run into a wall.

Across the expanse of wood stood the figure.

Feet apart, shoulders square, left arm down held away from his body, at the ready. Held on the right was the gun. Face got his first clear view of it. It was unmistakable with its polished oak stock and drum magazine. The muzzle was pointed upward, balanced motionless by an arm as muscled as his own.

Face had been right, he didn’t wear a uniform. The T-shirt held no insignias. The camouflage pants were snug on heavily muscled thighs and tucked into lace up boots. He wasn’t sure, although it certainly looked like a bush jacket tied by the sleeves at the waist. Face had been looking at one labeled “retro” in the J. Peterman catalog.

The chopper was getting closer and Face wished he had a steed aptly named Gunpowder to ferry him across. Instead of being armed with a flaming pumpkin this modern day Hessian was a Thompson gunner. One had a chance of dodging an oversized squash. Bullets? Not so much.

Dust began rising on the other side of the gulley and Face was suddenly in tune with the deafening sound of the helicopter rotors, somewhat shaken by the realization he had somehow blocked them out. The grey dust cloud forming a perimeter around his transport out of this mess engulfed the figure, fully covering him as the billowing inched along the bridge blanking out not only the other end previously lit by moonlight, but also creating a camouflage for the chopper too.

He had to get up. No two ways about it. As he tried to bring his knees under him his legs quivered in exhaustion. It was a struggle to only get as far as his hands and knees. Despite the din of the blades Face made out the sound of footfalls, hollow yet sure. In desperation he looked back toward the trees. There was no one coming from that direction, it only meant they were coming from the bridge. He struggled and failed to stand, any hope of making it back to the wood gone.

Once more fully on the ground he froze when he saw the laced up boots approach, long deliberate strides closing the distance. Huddling down he now yelped when hands closed around his shoulders.

“Oh god, Kid. Are you hurt? Talk to me.”

Face opened his eyes. The boots had been replaced by someone kneeling beside him. The rotors had powered down and their sound of escape had been replaced with this voice of comfort and safety.

“BA! Get over here! Face is injured!” Then quieter, “It’s okay Temp. We’ll get you out of here.”

Another set of boots were running toward him. He lifted and cringed away only to be taken in strong arms. “Easy, Kid.” Face didn’t want to let go. “Help me here, BA.”

More hands were on him and another voice, this one swamping him with a feeling of being protected, was asking, “Can you stand, lil’ bro?” He buried his head deeper into the chest and arms surrounding him.

“Okay, let go Face. We’ve got you.”

As he was lifted from the ground he knew his legs wouldn’t hold him, not to walk across the bridge. But it wasn’t a concern after he was fully upright and BA had lifted him, holding firm behind his shoulders and under his knees. Face reached for the thick neck and held tight eyes closed.

Reaching the open door of the transport a third familiar voice sounded distressed. “Face! What happened?”

“Get us out of here, Murdock!”

“Yes, sir!”

BA lay Face on the deck of the chopper, Hannibal helping to support his legs down.

“Come on, Face. Let me get this helmet off.”

“Did you see him?”

“See who?”

“The gunner.”

“There was no one else around, not that I saw.”

“No one else there, Faceman,” BA confirmed.

“I think I could use some leave, Boss.”

Hannibal’s worried features finally softened. “I‘m sure that can be arranged.”

**Copenhagen, Denmark 1966**

Roland entered the SAS Royal Hotel five minutes ahead of schedule. He had no thoughts of being the first to arrive, only wanted to be done with the meeting as efficiently as possible. Bypassing the lobby he climbed the sprawling spiral staircase, nimbly trotting his way to the top. There waiting on the second floor was a young woman.

Blonde hair in a modern, long-length flip hairdo of a cut that screamed Sassoon, her extended eyeliner, with thick false lashes contrasted with her lips, painted nude, just this side of white. She silently guided him past the concierge desk. Her dress was of the most up-to-date in London fashion. The mini skirted, yellow and black striped turtleneck brought a bumblebee to Roland’s mind. Fitting he thought, considering the flower blossom topped Pappagallo “Poppy” shoes she wore.

She never uttered a word and he wondered what language she spoke. Copenhagen being one of the more cosmopolitan European ports of the jet age and jet set, one never could make assumptions. Riding the elevator in silence, they disembarked on one of the upper floors of architect Arne Jacobsen’s modern masterpiece.

Down the corridor a man stood, dark suit jacket topping cigarette pants with a perfect skinny tie tucked inside the buttoned coat. Her role well played, the young woman returned to the elevator. Never one to hesitate, Roland headed for the suite door being held open for him.

With rain-wet trench coat handed over he chose an “Egg” chair over the more confining “Swan” seating. Lighting a Gitanes he waved away the offer of libation. He gave off the distinct impression he was present for business, not small talk.

Traveling from his home in Norway had been nothing more than a commute for Roland. A puddle jumper flight compared to the long haul the Congolese attaché had made carrying the case of US Dollars. The third participant was an expatriate Frenchman, Beaulieu, who had himself come in from Algiers.

With a spin on the table Beaulieu had the briefcase, locks before him, ready to open. The combinations were tumbled and the hasps each sprang open in turn via a turn of a redundant key. He again spun the case, this time to face Roland. “Would you care to count it?”

“If it’s not all there, I will consider it my fee for flying to Copenhagen. And you,” he turned to the dark man, “You will need to find yourself another gunner.”

The attaché understood, but didn’t give voice to the insult he perceived. “There will be no need for that.”

“Who else?” Roland asked Beaulieu.

“La Place, Ahlgren...Van Owen.” Seeing the darkness pass over Roland’s eyes at the mention of the erratic Van Owen, he quickly added, “Hoarse, Taffy Williams, Müller, Moneta, Zumbach. They’re already there, of course.”

“You been informed I’ve moved out of this line of work. Why insist on me?”

“It should be no surprise to you, you’re considered the best.” His tone wasn’t smarmy or cajoling. Simply matter of fact.

Roland set out for Biafra eventually landing at the monument to Igbos technological advancement, Uli Field. It would be closed in ‘68, left to decay in the aftermath of the uprising in the country. But on this evening, the lights flashed on momentarily to give the pilot a glimpse of the runway he was shooting for in the dark.

True to his word Schramme had sent a car. Sliding in the backseat of the overly long sedan Roland was met by Etienne La Place. The men were unaware they had traveled in on the same plane. Greetings were exchanged but otherwise all was quiet as they drove through the night to Schramme’s plantation where they would converge with the other soldiers of fortune.

Each chosen for their particular specialty, these men were there to put down any strays left from the Congo Crisis. They soon found there weren’t random strays per say, more like pockets of those still loyal to Soviet backed Patrice Lumumba who had been executed back in ‘61, and surprisingly, the lost colonialism of the Belgium Congo.

The suppression was bloody and gore filled work, but the mercenaries carried on, tracking through jungles of the kind described by adventurer Frank Buck. Once their quarry was in range Roland would open with his Thompson gun, the rest following to dispose of any who remained alive after the initial assault.

Only a few years prior, the Congo had become a proxy conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union. A hot battleground in a Cold War. While Lumumba had been executed and the Soviets lost a hold within the region, the US were not prepared to be pushed aside to allow the Congolese to decide the fate of the new Republic of the Congo on their own. Not just yet. It seemed to the CIA this particular group of mercenaries was a little too efficient. Having been hired directly by the Congolese, the CIA decided to put a wrench in the works of the group. It would serve the Agency better if the Congolese were still at least a little dependent.

The communique Roland received led him back to their encampment. Equipment stowed and hung in the foliage filled branches of the trees his eye was immediately pulled to the single shape that didn’t belong amongst the array of shapes found in the bush. The moment he saw the perfectly straight shape from the barrel of one of his own Thompson guns it was already too late.

That son-of-bitch Van Owen, not schooled in the use of the weapon, began firing, sweeping from side to side. He saw Roland crumble but not fully go down. He continued swaying left and right until it finally registered his target had to be dead.

A smile slid along his face as he stood upward and took his first few steps to confirm the bounty the CIA promised would be his. He had only left the weapon behind by half a dozen feet when the brush where the body had fallen began to rustle. One thing each of the men knew was they were never alone in the bush. Animals came and went often without a trace. This wasn’t going to be one of those times the hired gun determined.

Van Owen unshouldered his own rifle, took aim and fired into the disturbance. Whatever had been there was beating a retreat into the jungle, moving relatively fast. Satisfied he was again alone he quickly moved toward the body.

Uncertain how it couldn’t be directly in front of the large tree that had been dead ahead, he had a moment of panic thinking Roland had somehow survived. But that thought came to a swift end when he stumbled over something under the forest vines. Using the barrel of his gun he lifted the vines away. There laid Roland’s head. Shot clean off.

Van Owen peered into the overgrowth in the direction of the animal that had managed to drag off Roland’s body. Nothing to be done about it. He would tell their comrades the story he had already planned, just with a twist at the end. When he came upon Roland, gunned down by his own Thompson, the gunfire he had heard from a distance, Roland’s body had already been taken. No doubt, someday, someone would find what was left of it in the crook of the tree where a leopard had consumed what it could.

Had Van Owen or any of the other mercenaries who eventually crowded the scene paid close attention they would have noted there was not a single big cat print in the area and besides that, the gunner’s second Thompson had gone missing.

With Roland’s head wrapped in burlap they broke camp to again follow Schramme into the jungle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~¥¥¥~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner**

By Warren William Zevon / David Eric Lindell

Listen [here](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=mx2UpGG4JEU)

Some of the mercenaries mentioned such as Schramme and the pilot Molloch are actual historic figures who participated in the Congo Uprising of the 1960s.

(depiction artists unknown)


End file.
